The Wistful Grid
The glass was already broken before you picked it up, though you did not know this, nor did you wish to know it, for the act of holding a thing that is already destroyed is a peculiar kind of violence that the mind tries to soften into carelessness. You sat at the edge of the mahogany desk, the wood worn smooth by the decades of your father’s hands, and the vase lay in the center of the...
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